


I wanna be that fantasy (that you got on your mind)

by winterysomnium



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How about – I give you a massage?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I wanna be that fantasy (that you got on your mind)

**Author's Note:**

> Title are a part of the lyrics from the song "Paris" by Lana del Rey.

Tim isn’t yanked as much as he’s spun, the dizzy nausea hitting his stomach seconds after gravity is back at the center of his spine, settled across the gap between his knees but his toes curl, his fingers twitch because Bart’s touching his forearms, bony knuckles looping around them like skintight bracelets, like fake tattoos that will disappear once Tim showers, once he’ll rub his fingertips across the dyed, bruised spots until the underside turns red and swollen, scrapes of the picture stuck under his nails. 

He shivers, remembers how sticky those showers and nails and days were and Bart’s face tears through a frown, blurs with a smile, changing without signs like he’s water, waves touching the shore, his mouth focused on Tim’s, soft and slow like sluggish, sinking sand, warm with tea Tim likes bitter and hot, the chair underneath him suddenly missing, pushed back while he’s pulled upwards, Bart’s hands curling around his wrists and counting his pulse, predicting each heartbeat, filling up the silent spaces, tapping against the strings of his veins; they’re a song without being loud, so quick it leaves Tim winded, so slow Bart breathes for them both as he tugs Tim to their unmade bed, the sheets messy but clean. 

If it would be easy, if it were _possible_ he would trip Tim’s feet, would watch him bounce and slip under his t-shirt before he could react but Bart learned to let Tim ask questions, to give him a moment to control, to inspect things and Tim’s feet sometimes trip on their own, not accidentally and not without precision, with something measured, something that eliminates failure and Bart wants to sketch the angles, memorize every number there’s to know about Tim’s body, how he divides when he executes the plans he has made, how he multiplies under stress, between failure and success and at times, Bart is so smitten he borrows Tim; takes him out of his life and puts them out of perspective, holds his face between his palms and kisses him until Tim’s questions wither, until his eyes close before he solves where they are. 

They might not be under foreign skies now but it’s new to Tim, it’s an encounter that begs to be held at arm’s length and put on the outside of Robin’s mask, dissected to the minutest vibration of Bart’s toes but Robin is shapeless now, air-thin and stained with yesterday’s streets, unfit for tomorrows. It’s through his shadow, through yesterday’s accents that Tim asks: “What are you doing?” and Bart recognizes the battle for Tim’s skin, where Robin dries his hands and rubs his eyes and longs for more data, where Tim gives into his gestures, to the order that feeds his submission, that heats the inside of his bones.

“Trying to get you to relax,” Bart murmurs to a dry, soft spot under Tim’s ear, sucking out the warmth and kissing round, manufactured bruises up Tim’s neck, a string of inner bleedings he returns to with his tongue, rubbing against Tim’s loose clothes.

“How about – I give you a massage?” Bart walks himself to the corner of the bed, his knees giving out on purpose and he drags Tim with him, forgets about what he wanted, what he aimed for when Tim connects their hips and asks: “A massage?” his wrists still in Bart’s hands like Tim is bound to him, like Bart’s fingers are cuffs and his arm chains, like Tim would never escape, never _move_ , not without _permission_ and that’s something that sucks the speed out of him, sucks the world out of focus until there’s Tim and him and the places where they press into each other, where they touch for hours if he’s faster than Tim wants and it’s – it’s incredible. 

It’s amazing because escaping is what Tim is best at, escaping from danger and dying and himself, escaping through a fight, escaping without running or hiding and he’s so good at it, so so good, so good at winning and staying human and getting down on his knees before Bart, _for_ Bart, he’s as good as he’s pliant and skilled when he listens to every word, _command_ Bart utters, _obeys_ and for once Bart doesn’t feel like a kid, like he’s too young, too naïve for sex or Tim or a relationship, doesn’t feel like he didn’t age enough to want, like he doesn't _deserve_ any of those emotions, can’t want or need or long for but Tim doesn’t judge Bart for _anything_ , even if he used to come too fast and kissed him too sloppily and didn’t know what to do with his fingers, what to do with _himself_ between Tim’s knees, book after book sliding through his mind but Tim didn’t laugh or get angry or scold him, didn’t think he was too immature for wanting to fuck someone and – 

Tim doesn’t see him as a kid. Not since the bullet and Kid Flash and random things falling out of his mouth, not since they rubbed their lips after an early morning, sleepless night kiss, not since their thighs were pressed together on the couch while they all watched a movie, not since Tim sucked at his neck once everyone went to sleep. 

Bart loves him just for that, just for the secure shelter of acceptance and he wants to treat Tim well too, wants to satisfy the thrill of being powerless so he grinds against Tim’s skin until Tim gasps and tenses, until he’s just air and shivers, just contrasts of heat and bareness, of exposure and Bart’s hands and somehow Bart’s intentions slip back into his body, like they were one of his scouts, like they were a part of him all along.

He moves up the sheets, moves up and up and Tim follows him, blindly follows his mouth and face and hips, follows him up the headboard where Bart lazily sits up against the wood and pillows, tells Tim in his lap to “Turn around” and Tim does, lies back against Bart’s chest, sits between his thighs, Bart’s cock a pressure on the small of his back, their knees touching and Tim’s palms sliding up Bart’s thighs, in motion before Bart speaks again, stroking Tim’s neck.

“Stop moving now.” 

He can make Tim laugh or he can turn him on, he can try for both but for these moments neither works too, works well on this boy he just wants to please, this boy who just wants to please him too. “Relax.” 

“What are you going to do?” Tim wriggles, pants when Bart’s palms push him harder against his cock, an useless motion, a tiny distraction but it's enough, enough to subdue Tim’s mind.

“Give you a massage.” He repeats, mutters against the back of Tim's ear,Tim’s hair tickling along the tip of his nose as he starts the minute, tiny vibrations, from the middle of his chest to the tiniest bones; grins when Tim jerks and breathes in, ups the speed. “It’s a special speedster technique.”

“Oh.” 

“Just pretend I’m one of those massage chairs you can try out in supermarkets.”

“I’m – I’m pretty sure a massage chair isn’t supposed to grope me,” Tim says, breathless; Bart’s fingers sliding up the inner sides of his thighs, goose bumps trailing across Tim’s arms where Bart can see, Tim’s own insides liquid, thick but molten with electricity; it distantly reminds him of drowning. Reminds him of keeping your lungs full, of caving without air outside of your skin; it's asphyxiation but nicer, better, stimulation instead of pressure, more of a tease than a massage and it’s – 

intentional, isn’t it?

Tim’s sweatpants are tenting, he knows and feels and sees; skin damp and hot and it would be embarrassing if there was anyone else to see it but Bart, Bart whose fingertips are stroking his chest and ribs, Bart whose own body stirs underneath his own, Bart whose smiles he can take, whose presence doesn’t hurt, doesn’t leave distress.

So even if Tim helplessly rocks his hips, bites his mouth until it doesn’t hurt, begs with his fingers and mouth and toes, begs with the arc of his back and only gets another tease, will get it for an hour or more – 

he smiles against Bart’s shoulder.


End file.
